Fractured Divinity
by Ninavask
Summary: A mad Breton beggar and a High Elf mercenary work to unravel the plot behind the heinous slaughter of a prominent Colovian nobleman and his family. When possible signs of Daedric involvement are found the two find themselves drawn into a murky conspiracy that will send them across all Tamriel chasing the faintest whispers of the malevolent forces at work.


**Prologue**

 _Lorkhan, the Missing God, is the deity commonly believed to have instigated the creation of the world. By tricking, or persuading, the et'Ada into sacrificing their power to create Mundus._

"I… was a god once." The wizened Breton moaned. "I swear I was. It was a long, long, time ago but I really was. I swear it to you. I had power, wealth, and even good looks once. Once upon a time…" The man trailed off with a pitiful grunt as the fist found his stomach once more. The thug growled low as he held the emaciated Breton up by the arm.

His gloved fingers dug deep into the thin flesh of the high rock native's arm, and the wizened face contorted in pain as he struggled to suck in a breath.

"I don't care about your stories you old moron. Give me the coins. I saw them toss you coins, give them up." The thug growled as he shook the, comparatively, diminutive man by the arm. The two accomplices with him stood vigiilant at the alley entrance. Making certain they would not be rudely interrupted by any guards, or any unfortunate witnesses that might happen to walk by.

Another series of words mumbled in protest, and there was another fist to the starving man's gut before the thug had what he wanted. A few coins spilled from the man's sack cloth trousers and clattered across the stone cobbles below.

The thug let the Breton drop to the ground and scooped the coins up from where they had fallen with a grunt of annoyance.

"Really? You held out for this? You are pathetic, Kessler." The man spat onto the stones in front of the decrepit old Breton and pocketed the golden coins. With a whistle he and his accomplices slunk back out into the streets and grumbled to themselves over the paltry sum. They left the twisted old man where he lay. Tears of pain ran from watery gray eyes as the man clutched at his belly and struggled to find breath as he clawed at the ground.

He lay there on the cobbles for an agonizingly long time before, finally, he managed to push himself to his hands and knees and sat back on his legs. Running dirty hands through equally dirty and hopelessly tangled strands of hair.

Shoulder length and streaked with more gray than black bespoke the man's age. The hair came away in his fingers in small clumps at times, fresh losses in his gradually thinning pate that left a moan of dejection on his lips. Lines creased his tall but narrow features, and those wet gray eyes peered out from darkened sockets. Accompanied by the gaunt cheeks and protruding ribcage one look told the tale of a pitiful man who had not seen a true meal in weeks, if not months.

Kessler of High Rock was a pitiful man who, by turns, felt he at once deserved the starvation and beatings he so often received at the hands of criminals and other beggars, or felt he had been horribly wronged in some way. On his better days Kessler believed himself unworthy of such spite and such hate, and felt disgust at his own apathy to the desolation he lived day in and day out. On his worse days he would lay in alleyways bemoaning his existence, and wishing he would just finally die.

Then there would, of course, be all the days inbetween. Days he would beg and plead for even the smallest quantities of coin, or at the very most a hot meal to take some of the hunger away. Alternating between city square and market, and very rarely sometimes the harbor itself. On days when no vessels had come into port.

Or he would waste the majority of his day begging to be put to work. To do something to break up the monotony and allow himself to be paid, even a meager sum, so he could purchase bread, Or at least a bowl of gray-green fluid that some of the pot shops called onion soup. Jobs were few and far between. There was very little a man in his sorry state could do. At the very least there were days he would chase the rats that roamed through the shadows between home and business. Amongst the streets and warrens of Anvil. Hoping to earn himself, at the very least, a meal that would lessen the pain of his empty stomach. Rat was edible when one was half starved, and unconcerned with the possibilities of rock joint being carried in the beasts.

Every day was different, every day was a new circle of oblivion for him to muddle through. Life was not kind to Kessler, not kind in the least. It had not been for some years now, though he could not quite remember why.

Kessler's earliest waking memory was of pain as he awakened within the famed great Chapel of Dibella in Anvil. A priestess's hands had been upon his head and she had, it seemed, been trying to heal him.

He had screamed and thrashed and bitten to break free, and had finally managed to escape the priestess only to be subdued by two other priests who had come at the sound of screams. It had taken time for him to calm down, but when he had the priestess had informed Kessler he was wounded. A major blow to the back of the head that had fractured bone. The woman had been amazed he still lived, and insisted on trying to heal the wound.

Only every time she tried to apply her divine healing the pain returned. After another attempt to flee from the pain, the priests had decided more conventional healing would be necessary.

He had stayed within the walls of the chapel for the better part of a month, and Kessler's memory had not improved. The wound had, indeed, healed but even to this day it still hurt him. Like a fire in his flesh that spread out whenever it came to mind. It spread out now, deep inside his skul. Like a spider pressed to the back of his mind. It had been years since Kessler had awakened in the chapel, and yet he still refused to go back because that pain reminded him.

It had hurt to remain within the chapel, he had discovered. He would awaken in pain, as if his skin was aflame. As the day wore on the pain would fade but it would not cease entirely. Not until he had finally fled from the temple when it had grown too much, and now he refused to return. Refused to even consider returning within the threshold without great reason.

As strange as the occurrence had been, and regardless of how many murmurs of "unholy" and "evil" had passed amongst the priesthood, the priestess had bade Kessler a welcome guest of the chapel, should he be willing to suffer the pain to stand within the hall. She thought the pain a hurt to be cleansed only through trial, but _They_ had decided the pain was a curse inflicted upon him by Dibella. Outside the walls the preists and monks who served dibella would not help him, no matter how pathetic he might appear. Yet inside the walls they would gladly feed him and allow him a place to rest without question, only as long as he was willing to suffer Dibella's. Mostly because their Priestess would not allow them to ignore him and his suffering.

Kessler had not set foot within the chapel hall since he had left. Whether starving, wounded, sick, or even desperate for sleep. He refused to take one step within the chapel lest he feel that all consuming pain every waking moment of every day once more.

Kessler kneeled there in the alley and stared despondently at the stones beneath him. Where the few coins he had acquired had fallen when he had been struck. He had been hoping to pay for a heel of bread down at one of the inns down by the harbor. He knew some of the innkeepers, well more importantly he knew the cooks. He also knew which ones often paid tithes to the chapel for help to care for homeless and destitute. He knew which ones would leave out scraps, and which ones would throw out food that had been dipped in poison in hopes of solving the homeless problem themselves.

Though hungry, Kessler did not consider going by the harbor this evening. He had heard the sounds of a new ship being hauled into port earlier. Several ships actually now sat in the deep water docks. Big fat bottomed merchant cogs and galleys. He had caught a glimpse of them through the gate sometime after midday. One of the ships had even appeared of dunmer make. A vast shallow bottomed barge from Morrowind made of shells and worked wood.

There would be no place for Kessler down in the harbor tonight. Not without coin. When fresh ships came into port that was where all thought for the destitute died. The cooks would be too busy to feed those who could not feed themselves, and the scraps would not be plentiful. Men that had spent months at sea knew better than to waste their food and sailors were a surly lot. Man or mer they were men, and rarely women, who had spent months at sea cooped up in cramped boats. Weathering storms and suffering the limited meals and space their profession entailed. Whereas the homeless were just that, without homes. With no one to care for them and miss them, they were outlets the sailors could exploit.

The harbour was dangerous when too many ships came in all at once.

Instead Kessler turned his thoughts to one of the least reliable but often times most rewarding options that lay before him. As he remained there in the middle of the alley he considered whether the local butcher would have remembered to properly lock his smoke house tonight. Or whether the gate into the little courtyard behind the butcher shop had been repaired after the last time Kessler had been desperate enough to "find" a way in.

Slowly the pitiful beggar found his way to his feet and stumbled out into the street beyond. Nearly crashing into a patrol of men in steel caps with dark leather brigandines that shimmered in the light of a torch one of them held aloft to see by.

The men were startled and cried out in surprise, but when they saw who had surprised them they cursed his name. Their voices shouted after Kessler in annoyance as he shambled away down the side street. Not interested enough to give chase, but annoyed enough to vocalize their abuses.

 **Pity. They might have had some coin.**

Kessler nearly stumbled and fell at the deepness of the voice that filled his mind. The way it rattled and rumbled about inside his skull caused it to ache suddenly. He did not fall, much to his own surprise, and continued walking. Even as the voice continued speaking.

 **So easy. So soft and fleshy where that armour isn't. Eyes free and clear, ripe for the plucking. Yet they have swords, a perfect instrument to kill them with. And one so poetic. Imagine. Guard slain by their own captain's sword. Looted of possessions and left naked and dead in the streets. Citizens mollified. The town crier would have a field day.**

The voice echoed in Kessler's mind, even as he tried his hardest to ignore it. He knew the attempt was pointless, just as much as the voice did. It was familiar with him, the voice knew him. It could hear his thinkings and never the less would state it's own thoughts on such opinions.

 **Ah repetition, the signs of a marvelous mind. Playing the same old game again and again and hoping, pleading, desperately wanting a different result. It brings a tear to my eye. Or it would if it wasn't so damned entertaining! As once as ever, you can't get rid of me. You can never get rid of me now that I am here, now that you are broken. T'would be like getting rid of magus during the day, that great burning hole in aetherius you mortals use to tell time. And why would you even want to be rid of me? I am the master of the party in this cracked noodle of yours.**

Kessler wretched and stumbled and pressed himself against the side of a building. Heaving as his insides seemed to dance beneath his skin. He wanted to vomit, but all that came was bile.

 **Nope can't get me out that easily, boy. Not that easily at all.**

The voice seemed to laugh, and it's laughter rattled about Kessler's skull like a drum. Booming from the back of his mind to the front, then from side to side. He clung there to the side of the building and tried to push the voice from his mind. To push it down, or push it out. Away from him.

The laughter only became worse as the voice boomed all the louder.

 **You can't get rid of me, Trickster! You are quite thoroughly cracked now! You're looney, demented, bonkers. Totally, absolutely, unequivocally broke in here. And that means I get a fancy new summer home. Seaside, by the beach.**

 **No, I like it here Lorkhan. I think I might stay a while, enjoy the view.**

 **O' god of mortals. I might just even become you.**

 **After a couple games of course. It would not be a bit of fun if there weren't any games to be played.**

The voice laughed in Kessler's mind, and he gagged and choked on the nonexistent vomit. Then, as the voice drifted away, he lurched forward. The pain of his hunger drove him on towards his destination, even though he did not quite remember where he had been going in the first place.

All Kessler knew, all that he was certain of, was what his body and the voice told him. He was a god without power, a god who had been broken in the mind as well as in being.

A god who was starving and desperately needed something to eat. He could not leave it up to chance. He could not waste time seeing if the butcher had been careless.

In a haze, Kessler began to stumble towards the harbour. Trying to drown out the booming laughter of the voice in his head.


End file.
